The Missing Detail
by Blue Bananana
Summary: This is based off of the Enola Holmes Series, which doesn't have a category. Sherlock finds out that his mother has run away from home, leaving her 14 year old daughter, Enola, alone. But when Mycroft sets Enola off, Sherlock has 2 to search for.
1. Prologe

**A.N. Hey, guys. This is a story based off of the new TV series done by the BBC, Sherlock. Any Sherlock Holmes fan who hasn't checked it out, should. Look it up on YouTube, it's a great series that is Sherlock Holmes in modern times. No, it's not a "Sherlock Holmes in the 22nd century" rip off. Sherlock was supposedly born, raised, and currently lives in modern times. Anyway, this is also based off of the Enola Holmes series. Again, all Sherlock Holmes fans should check this series out. Neither of these two series have their own categories, so this is going in Sherlock Holmes. I've updated Enola Holmes the way Sherlock Holmes was updated in the series Sherlock.**

**Update: Turns out, Sherlock has it's own category. Sweet! Enola Holmes still doesn't :( but I'm throwing this in Sherlock. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing. **

"After another successful case closed by Sherlock Holmes, the city sleeps soundly knowing that the criminal is in bars."

"That is until another crime is committed."

"Is there a reason you are so cynical or were you born that way?"

Sherlock looked at his good friend and partner in fighting crime, Dr. Watson, and smiled slightly.

"Dinner?"

"I thought you'd never ask. It's late, so dim-sung again?" Watson asked his good friend and part time babysitting charge, Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock didn't reply, only kept walking forward, but this time with the intent of getting a cab. They were interrupted by a phone ringing. Sherlock pulled out his phone and answered it.

"Hello?" Watson could hear a hurried mumbling on the other end of the line that made Sherlock grow more worried and urgent as it went on.

"8 o'clock. I'll be there." Sherlock continued walking, but Watson could tell that something was wrong, severely.

"Sherlock. What happened?" Watson asked the detective as he rushed down the street. When Sherlock didn't answer, Watson grabbed his shoulder and turned him around.

"What happened?" Watson demanded.

"My mother. She's disappeared."

**It's short. It's a Prologe. New chapter next Monday.**


	2. Chapter 1

**A.N. Hey, guys. This is Chapter 1. I'm going to try and update on Mondays, but I can't make any solid promises. No chapter next monday, though, I'll be out of town.**

**Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing.**

_What are you doing?_

_Blogging. Our adventures have quite the following._

_Oops. Forgot I was in a children's book. My train's in the station._

Sherlock shut his phone and grabbed his bag. As he and Mycroft exited the train, he glanced over the crowd. One business man, probably in a bank, who was short selling the stock he owned in his own company. One insurance agent having an affair. One 16 or 17 year old girl with a motorcycle that she certainly should not have been driving, even if she did have a license. She also looked suspiciously familiar. Sherlock didn't have time to look over any other members of the crowd, as the biker girl walked confidently up to Sherlock and Mycroft.

"Hello, Sherlock, Mycroft. I'm afraid we'll have to walk back to the house. The Mustang's not fixed, plus Lane and Mrs. Lane can't drive."

"Enola?" Sherlock asked, surprised by the biker girl's identity as his much younger sister.

"The one and only. You coming?" She turned and walked back towards her death trap of a motorcycle. The brothers hurried after her.

"Wait, what? If there is no car, then hire a cab." Mycroft said his first words since Sherlock and he had departed earlier that morning.

"Haven't got the cash on me. Besides, I'd never fit my bike in the back."

"Mycroft, fetch us a cab, will you?" Sherlock snapped, glaring at Enola. She didn't flinch under his cold stare.

"Oh. I'll meet you and Mycroft at the house, then." She went to mount the bike, but Sherlock stopped her.

"No, you won't. You will fit your bike in the cab, or get rid of the infernal thing. You are only 17 years old, and probably only just got your license. For God's sake, Enola!" Sherlock reprimanded. The two stared each other down. Both of them looked alike, with the same piercing eyes and sharp face. Finally, Enola broke away and said.

"Fine. I'll ride with you this time, but the bike stays with me. It took me a year to build that thing."

Mycroft pulled up then with the taxi then, and he moved to put his suitcase in the trunk. Enola moved faster and began to squeeze her motorcycle in. Sherlock went to help her, but she batted his hand away and finished the job. She then put Sherlock and Mycroft's bags in the back, and she entered the cab. Once they were all in, Sherlock started.

"Tell us exactly what happened, with as many details as possible."

"At 9:00 am on July 11, Mum left the house to go painting flowers in the fields. She was expected back at four o'clock. She never returned. She also left no message. No, there were no signs of a struggle or anything to indicate foul play. She didn't use the front gate to leave, so technically she couldn't have left the grounds. I've combed the fields and grounds, there's no sign of her."

"Well, after all this rain I'm not surprised." Sherlock was quite surprised. Enola had answered most of his questions straight away. The facts didn't make sense. He would have to get more. It was then the cab went through the front gate. Sherlock scanned the grounds and became horrified at what he saw. Wild roses ran amuck and the grass hadn't been cut in ages.

"What on earth has happened here?" Mycroft exclaimed after looking at the state of the lawn aswell.

"Absolutely nothing. Enola, what does the gardener do around here?" Sherlock turned to the leather clad girl.

"Gardener? The only help that we have is Mrs. Lane and Lane. Sometimes their son helps out doing odd jobs, but nobody else." Enola answered, thoroughly confused.

Once they arrived at the house and removed their bags from the car, the first thing Sherlock did was move towards his mother's room. When he entered, he was aghast. The entire thing was a complete and total mess. Clothes were strewn everywhere and the bed was unmade. A vase was empty of water and had a dying bouquet in it. Sherlock moved to the bedside table and began to examine it. Enola entered then, and leaned against the doorframe. Scanning the room, her eyes settled on the vase. Her brow furrowed and she walked closer.

"Sweet Pea and Thistles?" She said to no one in particular.

"What?" Sherlock looked up from the map he was examining.

"The bouquet. It's made of Sweet Pea and Thistles. That's an odd combination."

"Your mother was an odd person. Well," Sherlock said, standing up. "It seems that there is nothing more to be learned here. I'll think over what I've seen and make a conclusion. " Mycroft had come in by then and, after hearing Sherlock, turned away to go unpack his bags in the guest room. Sherlock exited after him, but Enola lingered, staring at the dying bouquet.

The meaning of flowers was a secret code of sorts that women had been using since the Victorian times. Enola's mother was a fanatic about flowers, and had given Enola a book on the meaning of flowers for Enola's most recent birthday. Many meanings Enola didn't know, but she knew these two well. Sweet Pea was a farewell flower, something that someone would use to say goodbye. Thistle meant defiance. In a flash of intuition, Enola realized where her mother had gone. The exact location was blurry, but Enola knew why her mother had left, how her mother had left, and that Enola no longer had the compulsion to find her.

**A.N. This is my failed attempt at a cliff hanger. Review!**


	3. Chapter 2

**A.N. I am so completely sorry for not updating sooner. School started again and my teachers are sadists. (Though, I may be a masochist for choosing the classes that I did). Please don't flame me, or shoot me, or anything along those lines. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Or Enola Holmes. Though, I wish I did. Benedict...**

Enola walked into the kitchen for lunch with her headphones on and her iPod blasting. She grabbed a bagel and put it in the microwave, then turned around to see Mycroft at the table eating and Sherlock watching him. She waved and went to grab the butter from the fridge. Mycroft said something, but she couldn't hear because she had her headphones on. Grabbing what she needed, she set up her lunch and sat down to eat it next to Sherlock. He turned and stared at her for a second then pulled her headphones out of her ears.

"Hey!" She exclaimed, turning to glare at him.

"We called you fifteen minutes ago. What were you doing?"

"I was on the guitar, so I probably didn't hear you."

"Liar. I didn't hear a guitar."

"I had my headphones plugged into the amp. It's electric. Otherwise you most definitely would hear a guitar. You figured anything out about Mum yet? If you don't then I've got a Math camp to head to. Calculus doesn't review itself."

"Well, yes, in fact, I have deduced something about Mum, but how are you getting to this Math camp?"

"I'll drive. I can do that you know. At least, I can drive the bike."

"I thought I said to get rid of it."

"You gave me a choice. I chose the other option. Now, the news on Mum."

"Well, Enola, I'm not quite sure how to tell you this, but we think that your mother has deemed you old enough for her to fulfill her personal goal of emancipation."

"What?" She replied. She knew that her mother had run away, but Sherlock's blatant avoidance of the fact was foreign to Enola.

"Sorry, you must not have understood. I'll pity your mind. Your mother has run away."

Enola was perfectly aware that her mother had run away, but Sherlock saying it like that pushed her over the mental edge she had been clinging to. She stood up, grabbed her bagel and iPod, and ran like all heck out of the room.

Three hours later, Enola was sitting in the front seat of her Mustang, installing a new steering wheel. The tricked out 2011 GT had not been enough for Enola, so once she earned enough money to buy it, she began to work on the engine and body to make it her dream car. It was mostly finished, but there were a few details to make it perfect. She was glad her father had been rich and left her mother most of the money. The insurance for the mustang was a nightmare! Then, Enola heard the pit-pat of little feet, and looked out the window of the car.

"Reginald! I thought I told you never to come down here!" She got out of the car and scooped the collie up. "It's dangerous."

"It's dangerous for you too. Is this your car?" Sherlock said as he came into view.

"Yes. And I am cautious. Reginald is a dog; he doesn't know what in a garage is dangerous."

"What on earth is this car?"

"2011 GT Mustang V8 fuel injection. I tricked it out. 512 Horse power, 120 Km/h. She's my baby."

"You are 17 years old!"

"So? I can drive quite well, thank you very much." She said as Sherlock began to walk around the car. He saw a few pieces of paper sitting in the passenger's seat, and Enola saw him see them. Their arms both whipped out to grab the papers, but Sherlock was standing closer, and wasn't holding a dog. Flipping through them, he saw two rather interesting caricatures of Sherlock and Mycroft. Enola was mortified. Sherlock stared open eyed at the two of them and then let out a huge exuberant laugh and continued laughing until he had run out of breath.

"You have quite the eye for caricature. Let's not show these to Mycroft, alright?" He placed the two sketches on the passenger seat, but he still had papers in his hand. These he found deserved more attention.

_Why didn't Mum take me with her?_

_If she had to go far, why didn't she take a car, or a bike?_

_Why did she dress so weird?_

_Why didn't she use the gate?_

_Where was she going?_

_What did she do with the money?_

_Why didn't she have a bag?_

_Why did she run away on my birthday?_

_Why didn't she at least leave me a note?_

"This is quite the list. We can deduce that she didn't use the gate because she didn't want the gate keeper to see where she went, which is also why she didn't use the roads, so no car or bike. As for everything else, I'm working on that. However, I fail to see how what she wore was weird."

"She was wearing a sweatshirt and cargo pants. In the beginning of summer."

"I haven't the faintest as to why any woman dresses the way that she does. It is not important. Now," Sherlock said as he replaced the papers and stood up from where he was leaning against the window of the car. "I'm going back to London today. Mycroft will stay for a few days. But, before I go, I wanted to ask you. Where do you think that Mum went?"

Enola gulped. Here he was, Sherlock Holmes, the great detective asking for her advice on a case, and she had no answer.

"I don't know."

Sherlock nodded before turning to leave. Enola released Reginald Collie, who followed Sherlock out, then she sat there, musing. Somehow, she knew, though it would not be his fault, but she would not speak to him again for a long time.

It was a dinner that night that Enola made up her mind. After attempting to find something in her wardrobe that wouldn't make Mycroft foam at the mouth, with little success, she went downstairs to meet her brother, and attempt to seem civilized.

"I'm sending you to a boarding school." Mycroft said, in between mouthfuls.

"You're what?" Enola exclaimed, outrage coloring her tone. She then calmed herself down. _Civilized, Enola, civilized. _

"Your mischief here is over. The seamstress for the school is coming over within the next few days. You will receive a uniform, and the best education possible."

"Mycroft, I'm already top in my class, I don't need a better education."

"Top of your class in a public school? Don't act like that's an achievement. You are a Holmes! Besides, I shall have no argument. You will not continue to disgrace the family."

Enola stood up to leave the room, without having taken a single mouthful.

Yes, she was decided. At least, she would be when she began to look at one of her mother's present's for her. Enola opened the cipher booklet her mum had obviously handmade.

ALO NEK OOL NIY MSM UME HTN ASY RHC

_Think, Enola, Think. _Enola remembered a phrase that her mum had said every single day.

"Enola, you will do fine on your own." Well, then. A sentence wouldn't have only three letter words.

ALONEKOOLNIYMSMUMEHTNASYRHC

The first word sprang at Enola. _Alone._ Or, was it Enola, because Enola backwards is alone.

CHRYSANTHEMUMSMYINLOOKENOLA

Mum? The word jumped at Enola.

MUMS MY IN LOOK ENOLA

That looked backwards.

ENOLA LOOK IN MY MUMS

Enola felt stupid. Of course, the word was chrysanthemums.

ENOLA LOOK IN MY CHRYSANTHEMUMS

Now, the question was, which chrysanthemums? The chrysanthemums in the garden? No, of course. _The _chrysanthemums outside, but _mum's _chrysanthemums inside?

Enola felt tired enough to go to sleep, but didn't want to. She picked up the other book that her mother had given her, a book on the meaning of flowers. Idly, she looked up sweet pea.

"Good bye, thank you for a nice time. A flower of departure."

Departure. Then, she flipped to thistles.

"Defiance."

Of course, how could Enola have forgotten? Her mother had left a message, in the form of flowers in the vase of her room lined with watercolors of flowers. _Water colors of flowers!_ Obvious. Enola sprung up and moved to her much abused doll house. She still had it, hiding in the corner of the room. Enola had never had patience for dolls, so she mostly tore their heads off whenever they were given to her. After smiling at the spider hiding in the plastic kitchen, Enola plucked the key to her mother's room from a doll's head.

Enola stared across her mother's room until she found the painting of chrysanthemums. Pulling it off the wall, Enola sat on the floor to pry the backing off of the frame. Inside she found two hundred pound notes. She sat dumbfounded for a few minutes, until a stutter in Mycroft's snoring awoke her from her trance. She replaced the painting, after taking the money, and returned to her room. Two questions lingered in Enola's mind. The first was easily dealt with. Legalities could jump in a lake, the money belonged to her. The second was what sparked a fire in her veins. Why had her mother left her the money?

**Review please! Also, I am going to be doing a little bit of a contest. The first person to give the correct answer to the question below gets the next chapter dedicated to them. Oh, and the question's in code.**

**Top: KORHFSEIWHFEOMN Bottom:CLESORTRETONEA**

**There's a hint on my profile. Good luck!**


	4. Chapter 3

**A.N. You have full permission to shot. I'm so so so so sorry that I haven't posted in forever. I was working out school, dance, forensics (Just got back from states, baby!), and an issue with how I was going to translate the story. I hope you like the new chapter! This chapter is dedicated to Garden Gnomie, with an honorable mention to Faith Robin. Faith got the question (mostly) but didn't answer because her translation was slightly off (btw, I'm assuming that faith is a girls name). Garden Gnomie was correct in his/her translation of "name one of the writers of sherlock" and his/her answer of Mark Gatis and Stephen Moffat. Look at the bottom of this chapter for another chipher!**

After five weeks of searching during the night, and sleeping during the day, Enola was ready. Her uniforms for the boarding school had arrived in all their pleated glory and Enola had completed many of the ciphers in her book. For instance, there was a cipher with ivy painted along the sides of it.

AOEOLIMESOK

LNKONYDBBN

What in the world? Enola picked up her book of flowers and turned to the entry on ivy. "Fidelity". That didn't help in the slightest. Feeling downhearted, Enola began to trace the painting of the ivy with her fingers. Up and down in a zigzag the leaves grew from right to left. Then it hit her. She re wrote the cipher.

KNOBSBEDINMYLOOKENOLA

Then, with spaces.

KNOBS BED IN MY LOOK ENOLA

Then moving the words.

ENOLA LOOK IN MY BED KNOBS

Then Enola rose to discover large amounts of bills stuffed in the iron of her mother's bed. This was the routine every night for Enola. She found it far more productive than her days, which were mainly spent in her room sleeping or hiding from Mycroft in the garage. Luckily for me, Mycroft hated the garage almost as much as I hated him to be in the garage. As the days passed, the mustang grew closer to finished and the cipher booklet became emptier and emptier of unsolved ciphers.

Before the trip on the train, where a representative from the school would meet her, Enola was to be driven down to the station by one of Mycroft's drivers. When I asked what kind of car it would be, Mycroft gave me a look, and ignored me. The car met me at the front door of the house. I had only one suitcase to carry with me, a small bag that was easy to carry over long distances. A woman sat in the backseat of the car with black, curly hair and a low cut shirt.

"Hello, there." The woman said, before returning to look at her phone. I gave her a small smile and sliped into my seat. I slamed the door closed and the car started to move down the road. I turned to the woman.

"Um…Would it be ok if I went and payed my respects to my dad before I left. I just don't want to leave without saying goodbye." I asked tentatively. She smiled and looked at the driver. He nodded and when we got to the cemetery, I pulled out of the leather seats. The woman tried to follow me, but I turned around.

"I'd like to see my dad alone, thanks." I smiled at her, and she smiled back. She slid gracefully back into the car. I walked away, in the direction of the small mausoleum that was my father's grave. Behind it, I found my bike, right where I had left it the night before. I picked it up, moved to the path, and took off. I was grateful that my father's grave could not be seen by the car. My legs burned as I flew down the road, trying to put as much distance between me and the car. It was faster than me, but I had a headstart. As I rode, I let my mind wander. What would happen to my baby? What would Mycroft think? What would Sherlock think! My fear propelled me down the road futher away from the car. They would get suspicious soon, and start to follow me. It didn't matter. I was at my destination: The train station in the next town. I put my bike on the rack, knowing that it would take a while for them to track me here, then even longer to find this bike. The ticket seller was kind and luckily not suspicious. As I boarded the train, my mind wandered even further. Sherlock would obviously come back. I wondered if he would be annoyed by my dissapearence. Probably not. He would see it as another challenge, something to keep him out of his duldrums. As the English countryside wizzed around me, I felt a sense of freedom, and yet an utter sense of lonliness. Enola. Alone.

**A.N. This one takes it one step farther...**

**11 15 18 8 14 11 15 18 8 19 1 16 8**

** 3 12 5 19 9 3 12 5 19 25 12 15 23**

**I tried to make the lines as clear as possible. Good luck! Remeber, I need the question and the answer.**


	5. Chapter 4

**A.N. I'm sorry. So, so sorry. I should have updated, I know. I'm sorry! But, I have an update now. It's a tiny bit shorter than the others, but I had a tiny problem. My friend is borrowing my copy of the Missing Marquess, so I couldn't write what happens next to Enola. I decided instead to write some Sherlock. Hope you enjoy!**

**This chapter is dedicated to girlwithwings329 for her correct answer of Benedict Cumberbatch! I'm giving an honorable mention to FaithRobin for figuring out the question and giving some historical/movie answers, but I was looking for Benedict here.  
**

Sherlock was utterly perplexed by his sister. Her tiny presence in his world had only ever been a small annoyance, a fly buzzing in the back of his mind. He could brush her existence away by simply ignoring her. With his mother's disappearance, her existence was becoming a more pressing issue. He could no longer in good conscious forget about is much younger, much more innocent, much more emotional sister.

Sherlock had a low opinion of women in general. Yes, his misogyny was a little misplaced in the 21st century, but Sherlock held the firm belief that women's emotion was the root of the problem. Men lacked that overtly emotional being that tended to cloud judgment. With his mother's state as one of the premiere activists in the country, Sherlock knew that women were capable of a great deal of things, but he was still not sure whether women could deal with great things. His mother could not handle her only daughter. It was clear to Sherlock from his sister's rebellious and inappropriate nature that the woman had not even attempted to discipline the girl, but had instead urged on her artistic and impractical acts. The girl that Sherlock and Mycroft witnessed at their home was not a product of a good education of moral principles, but a failure of the system and of their mother.

It kept occurring to Sherlock that perhaps the reason why his mother had ran away so abruptly was because of the girl. Maybe Enola's greater presence in the men's lives was meant as a lesson to the two of them. Or perhaps the girl became too much to handle. All of the possibilities had been trampling around Sherlock's head for hours, with no facts to support them. Fact: Sherlock's mother had ran away. Fact: She had left behind her daughter, still of tender age. The daughter that was the only member of the family who would still speak to her willingly. Sherlock turned on the sofa and clasped at the patches on his arm. He was coming to believe there was such a thing as a 4 patch problem.

Watson had been watching Sherlock writhing all morning. Sherlock would not tell Watson what was wrong. Or what he was working on. Or actually say anything at all. Or do anything other than lightly moan, grab his arm and twist on the couch. Watson had seen Sherlock pretty low, but this was getting to him. Just as Watson was contemplating a quick call to Mycroft, the doorbell rang downstairs and Sherlock leaped up and sprinted down in front of Watson. Sherlock flung open the door, grabbed a small white envelope from the shocked delivery boy, and sprinted back upstairs. Frantically, Sherlock clawed the envelope open and yanked the small paper out. Sherlock began to read the paper with his body tensed, like he would need to spring into action at any moment. But as he read, his body began to relax. He stared at the paper, willing the words to change into anything other than what they were. Cautiously and without moving his gaze, Sherlock spoke.

"I'll be gone for a few days, John. I have" Sherlock paused, took a deep breath, then continued. "Some business to attend to."He rose in a daze and headed toward his room. John called after him.

"What business?" When Sherlock didn't reply, John moved to investigate. The detective was packing, still in a daze. Sherlock pulled out his laptop.

"What are you doing, Sherlock?" John asked carefully.

"Buying a train ticket."

"And where is this train ticket to?"

"Not important." Sherlock closed his laptop, placed it in his suitcase, zipped the case shut, then made for the door.

"Sherlock?" But Sherlock was already out the door, and getting into a cab. Alright, John decided, it is definitely time to call Mycroft.

**A.N. Wow, this is a really short chapter. Sorry about that. I'm going to try to update before the end of the month and school. Here's the new cipher. It's a little trickier than the ones before. For a hint, I suggest looking up a crispy breakfast food usually served with eggs and cipher on your friendly neighborhood search engine.**

**W**he**n y**o**u **eli**m**in**at**e** t**h**e i**mp**o**ss**i**bl**e **wh**ate**ver** r**e**ma**in**s, **how**e**ver impr**o**ba**b**le, **mus**t b**e t**h**e t**ru**th- S**h**er**lo**ck H**olmes

**Now, this cipher doesn't really give a question, because that is way to long. It sort of gives a demand. So I'll add a polite please here now.  
Good luck!  
**


End file.
